


No Body, No Crime

by duplicity



Series: Shorter Works [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Depression, Drowning, Dubcon Kissing, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Murder Mystery, Obsession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Harry works as a car mechanic in a small town. He and Ginny are best friends, their close bond the product of a traumatic event that scarred them both as children.Now that they are adults with separate lives, it seems inevitable that they will drift apart. That is, until Ginny confides in Harry that she thinks her husband—the charming, enigmatic Tom Riddle—is cheating on her.A day later, Ginny goes missing. Harry is convinced that Tom is behind her disappearance, and becomes determined to exact justice by any means necessary.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: Shorter Works [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975801
Comments: 157
Kudos: 256





	1. i think he did it

**Author's Note:**

> long story short, i listened to evermore and this poured out of my brain. so this is my gift to all of you for the holidays 
> 
> this is a fairly dark story, and there may be dub-con elements towards the end.
> 
> thank you to [Coral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePinkJellyfish/works) for the post-publication beta on this story! any errors as we go along are my fault -finger guns-

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_i think he did it._

* * *

Dinner hour was peak for Padfoot's Bar. All of the tables were full, the tabletops covered with spreads of Sirius' signature baby back ribs and kettle chips. Off to the side, Fred and George were banging on the jukebox, trying to get 'Hound Dog' to play for the dozenth time that evening.

Harry fiddled with the dog-shaped salt shaker on the table and eyed the dim evening lighting reflected in its curved glass. He was waiting for Ginny to arrive for their usual Tuesday night dinner. Normally, he was the one who was late, but for once he'd gotten lucky at Finnigan's and finished an hour early. So now he was eating his weight in potatoes while he watched the other restaurant patrons as they filled the air with lively chatter.

"Doing alright there, kid?"

Sirius was smiling down at him, shirtsleeves rolled up, dark flecks of barbecue sauce clinging to the cuffs.

Harry set the salt shaker down and sat back in the booth. "Waiting for Ginny."

"Uh huh." Sirius shot him a sympathetic look. "Did you want anything else to eat? I've got a fresh batch coming out in a hot minute—I could give you a rib to snack on."

"I'm good, thanks." Harry bumped his knuckles on the table. "I'll order when she gets here."

Sirius gave his hair a ruffle. "Sure thing."

Harry was a grown man, no longer the same scrawny busboy who had run here after school to get away from his shitty home life, but Sirius was like family to him. Even something as stupid and innocuous as a hair ruffle filled Harry's chest with warmth. Sirius would always be there for him, and this bar would always be a safe space for him. "Thanks, Sirius."

"Any time." Sirius winked in an exaggerated manner. "Nothing I won't do to keep your holiday spirits up."

Harry knew what Sirius thought. What _everyone_ in town thought. They believed he had his heart set on Ginny, that he was pining for a love that was hopeless and out of reach. Harry could live with that because Ginny knew the truth. She knew that the rumours were silly and held no water. The bond he and Ginny had was not steeped in romantic feelings; it ran deeper than that.

Some minutes later, Ginny came rushing into the bar. Her face was flushed pink, her cheeks and nose on their way to a cheerful holiday red despite the thick scarf wrapped around her neck and the velvet hat resting upon her head.

It took her no time at all to locate him in their regular booth and walk on over. Harry stood and helped her remove her coat—a heavy faux-fur thing that probably cost more than he made in a week.

"Sorry I'm late," Ginny said, but she sounded distracted as she sat down. Her body twisted, allowing her to glance over her shoulder as she straightened her blouse and cardigan. "I got held up."

"No problem," Harry said amicably. "Did you want to order now, or...?"

"Anything's fine."

Harry flagged down a waitress and placed their usual order, but he was focused on Ginny. She seemed anxious. Her hands twisted against her deep purple scarf, her fingers clutching the soft fabric so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

They sat in silence until their drinks arrived—a glass of merlot for Ginny and an ice water for him. 

"Thanks," Ginny said as he passed her a napkin. She raised her glass to her lips and took a small sip. To the untrained eye, her hand was steady. Only Harry noticed the way she set the glass down with more force than necessary, and the way her eyes consistently flickered back to the entrance.

Harry let the condensation gather on his drink, debating whether he ought to say anything. He wasn't the kind to push for information—hearing others' personal issues often made him uncomfortable. He never knew what to say, and emotional support was not his strong suit. But this was Ginny, who knew him better than anyone on the planet. She would not expect him to be anyone other than himself.

"Is something wrong?" he ventured.

Ginny startled, bumping her wine glass with her forearm. Some of the dark liquid splashed over the edge before Harry could reach out to steady the stem of the glass. Then Ginny's eyes focused on him; they were a troubled shade of blue that Harry had mixed associations with.

After a pause, her hand settled delicately on the table. Without a word, Harry placed his own on top. Her skin was cold as ice, the diamond of her wedding ring pressed sharply against his palm. A ring that was hardly a year old.

Ginny tilted her head down, leaning in. A few strands of ginger hair untucked themselves from her chignon, dangling like gossamer threads over her pale, freckled face. Ginny had grown into her elegance, her beauty. For most of their childhood, she had stomped around in overalls and chunky army boots, determined to prove she could be one of the boys.

Nowadays, those outfits existed only in photographs and memories. Ginny's current wardrobe consisted of long wool coats, name-brand dress pants, and crisp, collared blouses. Her makeup was minimal: the shine of gloss on her lips and dark curls of mascara clinging to her lashes. But even though her looks had changed, her heart had not—Ginny was still the same girl he'd grown up with. She was, and would always be, his best friend.

Ginny licked her lips, then pulled a face at the taste of her own sticky lip gloss. Her hand snatched up a napkin and rubbed it furiously across her mouth until all of the pink was gone. Harry waited, his hand a warm blanket over her smaller, colder one.

She crumpled the napkin up and tossed it aside. Her expression was suddenly furious as she said, "I think Tom is cheating on me."

* * *

Ginny's rage lasted until the end of their meal, then the signs of fatigue and despair rolled in like the worst of storms, stealing the blaze of anger from her eyes and replacing it with the glisten of unshed tears.

"I don't know," Ginny whispered. "Harry, I really don't. Am I the crazy one in all this? Am I imagining things that aren't there? I don't—I don't even know where he could find the _time_ to have a mistress. When he's not home with me, he's at work, and when he's at work, Percy's there with him all day."

Tom had withdrawn from his wife, making excuses during stilted dinners and cancelling plans made weeks in advance. An emotionally-distant husband after a whirlwind romance.

What was it called, that initial period of infatuation that faded? The honeymoon phase.

Harry didn't know enough about Tom Riddle to make a judgement call. All that he knew was that Tom came from money. Tom had bought up one of the few successful wholesale companies in the area and proceeded to expand the business at an alarming rate. Two new offices had opened in the past year, and there were further plans for movement abroad.

"You're not wrong to be worried," Harry settled for saying. "From what you've told me, he's acting out of character. Whatever the reason, you've got every reason to be concerned about him. He's your husband."

"What if it's just the stress?" Ginny murmured. "We haven't had time to connect lately because he's been so busy with work." She sighed. "He keeps so much to himself, these days. I wish he'd open up to me."

"Maybe you need to tell him that."

Ginny sighed again and swirled the remnants of wine a few times in her glass before draining it dry. "I go from being angry as all hell to being fucking depressed. I don't want to confront him over something so stupid if it's nothing. I just don't know what else to do."

"It's not stupid if it upsets you," Harry said firmly. "If it makes you upset, then you should tell him."

"Hermione told me I dove in too quickly," Ginny said miserably, "that I was too young to get married so soon. Maybe she was right. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night wondering how the hell I got here. What the fuck do I know about being married? Tom was my first long-term relationship and I've barely known him for two years. I don't know how to make things last."

"Don't say that," Harry protested. "You are the strongest person I know, Ginny. Besides, what we've got is gonna last forever, right? I'll come beat your ass if you try to ditch me." Harry jabbed his finger at her. "If not for you—fuck, I would have given up ages ago."

Ginny snorted a laugh. "Goes both ways, that does." She paused, staring at her empty glass. "God, now _that_ deserves a proper toast." Ginny raised her hand to flag a waitress. When her glass was full once more, she lifted it in his direction. "To the longest and strongest relationship of my life."

"To you and me being disasters for years to come," Harry added as he clinked his glass with hers. They drank slowly, savouring the sanctity of the moment.

After a while of quiet, Harry said, "Tom's a good person, isn't he? I'm sure he'll understand if you talk to him about it."

The town adored Tom. He had raised their plain, boring town into prosperity and profitability. Tom had married one of their own, the youngest daughter of a family whose history traced back to the inception of the streets they walked upon.

Tom and Ginny's wedding had been a sweet and lavish affair, filled with flowers and joy. Harry had been the best man because Tom had no family or friends in the area. During the planning process, Tom had been cordial and accommodating, every inch the gentleman that Harry had come to expect based on what he'd been told.

There had been no stag or hen night, only a special day of celebration and the small gathering for supper that had followed it. Molly had cried over Harry's awkward, heartfelt speech. Awkward because Harry had rather felt that he was handing his best friend over to a total stranger.

But Tom Riddle was prince charming, and Ginny's life was a fairytale. Harry was just a footnote, a stalwart pillar that did not merit a headlining role in Ginny's new, exciting life.

"I dunno what's keeping me from telling him, if I'm being honest. You know me," Ginny said with a half-laugh, "rushing into things without thinking. If this was anyone else, I would have knocked them into next Sunday. But Tom... he's just different."

"Cause you're married to him?"

Ginny shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I try to imagine myself talking things out with him and it's like I'm talking at a brick wall."

Harry was no expert on relationships, but that didn't sound right. "He's not receptive to it?"

Ginny's brows knit together. "No, actually. He's great at listening?" The way her voice lifted at the end turned it into a question. "He's very understanding," she corrected. "Whenever I talk to him about something that bugs me, he always stops whatever he's doing to listen to me."

"Maybe you're nervous?" Harry suggested, but he didn't believe that either. Ginny was not the type to hesitate when she had something to say.

"I don't know." The frustration from earlier was returning to her voice. Ginny took another drink of her merlot. "I know you're right and that I should just get over myself and talk to him. It just feels like this gigantic fucking hurdle, which is ridiculous. If he _is_ cheating on me, then I'm going to divorce him. If he's not, then I'm just a goddamn idiot ruining one of the only good things in my life—"

"Hey," Harry interrupted. "None of that. You're a great fucking person, Gin. If he's cheating on you, then I'll be first in line to dump his body in the woods. We can even make it our get together for that week."

For the past few months, he and Ginny had met for dinner every Tuesday. That was all Harry would get now that she was married and busy, and he had come to accept it. Someday, he might lose even this weekly dinner. Ginny had bigger plans for her future than remaining in this tiny town. She had studied journalism for her degree, and Tom had promised to connect her with some of his big shot friends.

That promise had fallen by the wayside while Tom worked at expanding his new company, but Ginny had been busy helping him, so it wasn't as though she was stagnating in the role of housewife. Ginny was smart as a whip, even if she was inexperienced with the finer points of business. She had been so excited to play a role in the rapidly growing firm that Tom owned and managed.

Lately, though, she had spoken less on that subject. Harry cursed himself for not picking up on the signs sooner. Ginny was his best friend. He should have recognized that she was struggling on her own.

"You and my brothers can bury him out back," Ginny said wryly. Then she sniffed and rubbed at her face. "I don't know. Do _you_ think he's cheating on me?"

The evidence was subtle. Unexplained expenses on Tom's credit card bill for new furniture and a new flat that Ginny hadn't known about. But Tom was spending _his_ money, not _their_ money. Ginny hardly had anything to her name, and so it wasn't her right to question what Tom had claimed was a property investment. The new flat was fully furnished with no tenants, and had been for quite some time now, but Tom was never there—every night without fail, Tom returned to the bed he shared with his wife, even if he never initiated any intimacy.

If Tom _was_ having an affair, then it had to be during the day. But Percy was Tom's personal assistant. Percy spent most of the day with Tom, knew the man's schedule inside out and backwards. If Tom had snuck off for some dalliance, then surely Percy—who was what Ginny had once kindly described as ‘anal retentive on steroids'—would have noticed.

Then there was Tom's change in attitude. Again, subtle. Tom had withdrawn from his wife over time, holding her at arm's length, hardly touching her unless she initiated contact first. The fresh bloom of love had withered into a bland friendliness that was more appropriate for casual acquaintances than for a husband and wife.

Ginny had stewed on these fears for months, letting the worries pile up until they had become overwhelming. Tom was supposed to be her happy ending, the wonderful solution to all her problems. No more debt for her family, no more concern for her future job prospects. Tom was supposed to be a charming, handsome man who would love her for who she was. A man who would love her until death parted them, as promised in their wedding vows.

The circumstantial evidence Ginny had described did lead Harry to believe something was wrong, but he was not so certain that an affair explained Tom's odd behaviour. Tom was acting odd, but that didn’t mean he was cheating on her. Therefore Harry had no definitive answer to give—no answer that he believed enough to say with confidence.

"I'm about as lost as you are," Harry admitted. "Sorry. I wish I could give you something better, Ginny."

Ginny shook her head, then reached up to let her hair down. It tumbled over her shoulders in thick, glossy waves. "Don't be sorry. I didn't expect you to magic me up an answer or anything. I'll just… I'll talk to him. Soon. Before I see you next week, or else you've got to yell at me, yeah? That way I won't chicken out of it."

"I'm with you regardless of what happens," Harry promised. He reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Whatever you decide to do, I'm in your corner."

Ginny's resulting smile was full of affection. "Thanks, Harry. I know I can always count on you to be my rock."

* * *

Harry slept poorly that night, preoccupied with thoughts of Ginny and her marital issues. Prior to tonight, he had never given Tom's character any heavy consideration. So long as Ginny was happy, Harry had been satisfied. A speedy engagement such as Ginny and Tom's wasn't even out of place in a small town like this where everyone knew everyone.

But now that Ginny had shared her concerns with him, Harry wondered how much they really knew about Tom Riddle. The man had shown up, quite literally out of nowhere, and insinuated himself into their lives like he was some kind of saviour.

Everyone adored him, Ginny included. Tom was the very definition of philanthropic, selfless in the eyes of anyone who was asked for an opinion. Harry could agree that Tom was generous, but selfless was a description that required more convincing.

Harry recalled the brief time they'd spent together during the wedding. Tom had been friendly—eager, even—which was to be expected from a stranger who wished to fit into a close-knit community. They had made small talk about the most inane topics while they worked on the wedding plans.

Tom had taken the wedding planning rather seriously, come to think of it. A few weeks before the wedding, Tom had asked Harry for his opinions on the floral arrangements, to which Harry had given a direct answer—Ginny preferred daisies, and the colours didn't matter to her. The look in Tom's eyes had been very intent. Intent enough that Harry remembered the intensity of it even now, months and months after the fact.

So the theme of the wedding had been mostly white. White daisies and white lilies had made up Ginny’s bouquet, but then there had been bright orange tiger lilies pinned to his and Tom’s lapels.

Tom had also asked Harry what spots would be best for the wedding photographs. The answer to that was both simple and complicated. Anywhere except Godric's River, Harry had told him. Anywhere but there, and the photos would be perfect.

After the vows were exchanged, they had taken photographs outside. Charlie had snapped photo after photo, blinding them with the flash of his camera, but no one had minded. They had been lost in the joy of the moment, dazzled by the beauty of Tom and Ginny in their wedding attire.

Harry had examined the photos later, comparing the hopeful flush of Ginny's rosy cheeks to the sophistication of Tom's gratified smile. Separately, they were each beautiful in their own right. Together, they did not match. Even on that auspicious day, Tom seemed to be, for the lack of a kinder phrase, cut from a higher quality cloth.

Ginny's beauty was of the sweeter, gentler kind—like a dollop of honey stirred into a steaming cup of chamomile tea, like the wild dandelions that sprouted along unattended pavements. Her laughter was fierce and full of joy, her enthusiasm catching like wind underneath drifting autumn leaves. Ginny was the prettiest girl that Harry knew. There was a beauty that lived in every part of her, physical or otherwise.

Tom's, by contrast, was composed of amber. Unyielding, the product of time and natural progression. The plains of his face sculpted and shaped to aristocratic perfection. Amber was forged by warmth, by heat and pressure, but the end result was cold, frozen in perpetuity.

Harry did not doubt that Tom had been formed from a younger version of himself that was equally handsome. However, as Harry had gazed upon the visual representation of his best friend and her new husband, the contrast in their appearances only highlighted the different worlds they had come from.

This puzzle kept Harry up late into the night, later than he usually stayed up, but his mind refused to go quiet.

When Harry did at last doze off, his dreams were hazy and strange. Time moved slowly, thick as syrup, and somehow Harry found himself by Godric's River, surrounded by willow trees.

The water there was so very, very blue. Bluer than the skies, as blue as Ginny's eyes. Harry knelt by the river bank and watched the ripples flow past him. Then he fell into the waters, his limbs spread, giving his body over to the current. The water cradled him gently, like a lover, embracing his arms and legs, holding them steady.

Slowly, Harry sank down. Down and down he went, all of him swallowed up by the river. High above, the sun was misty and distant, distorted by the glossy waters. It was only when his back touched the river bed that his body began to struggle. The kind touch of the water on his skin turned like the tide, growing suddenly cold and merciless. River water flooded into his mouth, into his eyes and ears and nose, strangling his senses.

Fear held him in its unforgiving grasp, sharp teeth biting into his chest. Harry thrashed wildly, screaming without sound, kicking against a force of nature that he could not defeat.

Harry woke shaking and gasping for air, his lungs experiencing a burn that existed only in his mind. He had not dreamt of Godric's River in years, but he could recall the exact curve of its banks, like he had visited it only yesterday. The way the sunlight glanced off of its surface, the resulting shine as bright as any flashing siren. If he was to go there now, he would still know the best, sturdiest stones to step on if he wanted to get across quickly.

It took ages for Harry's racing heart to quiet, for the nervous tremors to ease out of his hands. Harry wiped at his face and sat up. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

After work, Harry went back to Padfoot's. Not because he had dinner plans, but because he'd been unable to focus all day due to his anxieties. Harry worried that he'd given Ginny the wrong advice, or that his advice had been so awful that Ginny would wind up making a mistake that would cost her her marriage.

God knew they could both be hot-tempered when they wanted to be. Harry had gotten into many reckless, ill-advised fistfights over the years. Some of them had even been over Ginny's honour, though those fights usually meant he had Ginny by his side, also throwing punches. So Harry was no stranger to running headfirst at his problems in a bullheaded attempt to fix them, but this was an approach that tended to have mixed results.

Hence visiting Padfoot's after work. Harry planned to ask Sirius for advice on how to handle the problem, or at the very least, get reassurance that he hadn't fucked it all up.

The bar was quiet when Harry arrived. A few regular patrons were having a laugh in the corner booth, but other than that, the place was relatively calm. Harry waved to Remus, then made his way over to where Sirius was wiping down the main counter.

"Hey, kid. What brings you here on this fine Wednesday evening?" Sirius grinned, pausing mid-motion to park his elbows on the wooden counter top like a teenage girl. "Hot date?"

"No," Harry said, snorting against his will. He slid onto one of the bar stools and tapped the counter meaningfully. "I came here for some advice, actually."

"Ah," Sirius said with a sage nod. "My other specialty. Besides being incredibly handsome and providing the best damn barbecue ribs on this side of the river."

Harry must have flinched at the mention of ‘river' because Sirius sobered, lifting his elbows off the counter and resuming his cleaning.

"So what is it you need help with?" Sirius asked lightly.

"It's a long story," Harry admitted. Then, possessed by a sudden urge to do so, he twisted in place, his gaze sweeping the room. There was no one, of course. Tom would be at home with his wife, enjoying dinner.

"Long stories tend to be the most interesting."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He had no idea where to begin and he was unsure how much detail he wanted to provide. Nervousness churned in his stomach. Was he doing the right thing? Sirius wouldn't tell a soul, but this would colour his opinion of Tom. And his opinion of Ginny, for that matter.

"You look like you need a drink," Sirius declared. "Happy hour for you, my friend. On the house, no protests."

Harry didn't have it in him to argue. Sirius poured out a Guinness and shoved the glass in his direction. "It's not about me," Harry said. Then at the sight of Sirius' raised brow, he took a sip of his drink. "It's about Ginny," he added.

"Ginny," repeated Sirius. "And it's _not_ about you?"

Harry knew what Sirius was hinting at, but he ignored it and continued, "She thinks Tom is cheating on her. Or, I dunno, that something else weird is going on with him. I talked about all this with her last night."

Sirius said nothing, which Harry took as his cue to lay out the rest of the story. All of the strange behaviour that Ginny had outlined, plus Harry's own limited observations and opinions.

"Do you think he is?" Sirius asked once Harry was finished talking. "Cheating on her, that is."

"I don't know," Harry said honestly. "I don't even know if I told her to do the right thing."

"Nothing wrong with talking. It's when talking turns to finger-pointing that things get sticky."

"Yeah, well, I don't think she's going to do that. We agreed that it didn't make much sense for him to have time for an affair."

"Then why say ‘cheating' at all?" Sirius asked with a shrug. "There's got to be a reason why she phrased it like that, and there's also a reason why you're _still_ phrasing it like that."

"That doesn't—" Harry stopped short, his thoughts getting muddled. "If it's not cheating, then what? They've hardly been married a year. Nothing's changed. At least, nothing that either of us could think of."

"Cheating isn't the only way out of a marriage, Harry. A false accusation can be just as damning." Sirius paused, then grimaced. "Sorry, that was harsh of me." He blew out a long gust of air, then said, "What I meant to say was, maybe Ginny is feeling confused. She's feeling confused, and she goes to you for help because she trusts you. She confides in you, she wants you to help her." Sirius paused a second time, then set the glass he was holding aside. "Do you see what I'm getting at?"

Harry did see, and he did not like what he saw. "You think Ginny is looking for an _excuse?"_

"Woah." Sirius raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "I'm not saying it's a sure thing, kid. But they did get hitched pretty fast, and I have always said that the two of you would be good together. Maybe she's realizing she lost out—"

"I can't believe you," Harry said angrily, standing up. "This isn't about—about whatever feelings you think she has for me, or you think I have for her! We're not like that."

"I'm only saying that it's a possibility," Sirius said slowly. "You can take it or leave it, Harry. I won't push if you don't want me to, but it seems to me that Ginny went to you with a long-shot story about her husband being a cheating asshole and expected you to do something about it."

"I'm leaving." Harry stepped back from the counter, his fists clenched, his breathing uneven. He was leaving before he said or did something he would regret later. "Thanks for the drink, but I'm going home."

Sirius' expression was a mixture of concern and pity. Harry hated it. He hated the implications behind it, and he hated that he still had no idea how to help Ginny. Harry turned his back, waving off Sirius' farewell, and left the bar.


	2. but i just can't prove it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if Tom knew how to love, he did not love Ginny. Tom held no love for Ginny, yet he had married her anyway. It baffled Harry. Ginny had no money, no titles, no properties to boast of. Why make her vanish, why hurt her? What had Ginny ever done to deserve such a cruel, uncaring husband? 
> 
> There were answers to be had—Harry only had to reach out for them, pry them from Tom's hands. So Harry was forced to take his own advice, the advice he had given to Ginny in their usual booth at Padfoot's: 
> 
> Go and talk to Tom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw this chapter for gaslighting, manipulative behaviour, panic attack, vomiting, depressive/suicidal thoughts

**Chapter 2**

_but i just can't prove it.  
_

* * *

Harry wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. It was a gross feeling made worse by the chilly atmosphere of the drafty garage. His nose twitched, prompting him to sniffle as he rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was fine. A few more hours, then he could go home and relax.

"Oi, Harry! Granger's here to see you. Make it quick, yeah?"

An unexpected visit. Harry brushed his jeans off and snatched up a cloth to clean his hands. "Sure thing. Thanks, Seamus."

Harry pushed through the door that led to the reception area of Finnigan's Garage. Hermione was waiting for him there. She gnawed on her lower lip, her hands flexing and tapping against the flat side of her purse. The buttons of her coat were misaligned, and her hair was in bushy disarray, the fullness of it barely held back by a dozen bobby pins. It was the way she typically wore her hair when she'd not had the time to brush it into a semblance of order.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

She made the strangest sound, a cross between a squeak and a yelp, then ran forwards and flung her arms around him in a silent, soul-crushing hug. "Ginny's gone missing."

Harry's arms automatically curved to hold her, his hands pressing against her shoulder blades. He rubbed a slow circle over her back before her words caught up to him. "Missing?"

"Tom's been at the station all morning filing the report. She hasn't been home since Wednesday. No one's seen her, she didn't go in for work—" Hermione had her face buried into the crook of his neck, but she lifted it to stare at him, her eyes wide and imploring. "Tom says she must have run off. But it's not like her, Harry. I'm worried. You haven't heard from her, have you? She'd never leave without saying something to you."

"I haven't," Harry said, feeling numb. His arms fell to his sides as the shock hit him. Ginny was missing.

Hermione had her arms wrapped around his waist, but she dropped them slowly and took a step back. "Do you think she ran away?"

Harry's vision flickered, shades of blue dancing over Hermione's concerned face. Echoes of the past called to him like warbled siren songs, but one voice was clear above the rest.

_Do you think he's cheating on me?_

"No," he said.

Hermione looked taken aback by his firm tone. "No?"

"No," Harry said, resolute. "She wouldn't have run away. You're right. Ginny's not like that."

"Then what? Kidnapping?" Hermione said, her voice rising as she spoke. "Where could she be?"

"I don't know," Harry said, but the response was reflexive. It felt insincere. "There isn't anything you can do right now," he added. "You should go back to work. Or go home. Let the police do their jobs."

Hermione shook her head. "How could I? What if she's hurt, or in danger?"

"There isn't anything you can do," Harry repeated, even though the statement tasted bitter in his mouth. "I'll find out what I can. Have the Weasleys been told?"

"I suppose they must have. Percy was there." Hermione's lower lip wobbled dangerously for a brief second before her expression firmed. "I'm going to brush up on the laws and regulations regarding missing persons cases," she stated. "If anyone even thinks of slacking or letting evidence slip through the cracks, they'll have to answer to me."

Harry saw Hermione to the door and gave her a hug farewell, but inwardly he was panicking. Ginny was missing. Ginny was _missing,_ and he was likely one of the last few people to have seen her aside from Tom.

Would the police come to ask him questions? They probably would, once they were finished taking Tom's statement. And no doubt Tom would be kicking up a fuss, demanding to know the whereabouts of his wife.

Had Ginny gone missing during the middle of the day? Late in the evening? When had Tom noticed? _How_ had Tom noticed, if he was so preoccupied with work?

Precious hours had been lost to them because Tom had neglected his wife. The police could have done something sooner. A search could have been started sooner. Harry's imagined movie reel of Tom's dramatic visit to the police station distorted, shattering into a pure, unbridled anger that bubbled up inside of Harry like a raging storm.

Tom had done this.

Harry was utterly certain, the truth of it crashing down upon him as a new scenario played itself out in his mind's eye.

Ginny confronting her husband with her concerns about his behaviour. Ginny confessing that she felt their new marriage had lost the fresh bloom of love. And Tom, with the entitled temper that Harry had come to expect from rich men with no morals, lashing out in a fit of violent fury.

It seemed absurd. Harry had only met Tom a few times, one of which had been at the wedding. The entire town bowed and scraped at Tom Riddle's feet, desperate for the rush of his magnanimous attention. To any outsider, Tom was the embodiment of a good, faithful man.

But Ginny's concerns were not unfounded. She had been anxious. Afraid. A wrong accusation would have ruined all that she had worked for, all that she had cobbled together for herself from the ashes of her childhood. To point a finger at her husband was to battle against the endless tide of those who claimed he could do no wrong.

Harry was not afraid of that tide. For Ginny, there was nothing he wouldn't do, no fear that held power over him. Tom Riddle was a man, not a god. Harry would stick a shovel right into the damp soil beneath Tom's feet and start digging.

* * *

The weekend passed without any new information. Harry was questioned by the police, but unfortunately he had very little to tell them. He did not divulge anything regarding Ginny's marital concerns. The Weasleys were not seen in public save for Arthur, who presented a tearful face on the local news channel, pleading for Ginny to come home.

The headline was tragic: only daughter of small town mayor goes missing. Mentions of Tom were made, of course, and a photograph of the wedding was included in the news broadcast. People lamented the absence of a vibrant young woman who had dreams of entering the world of journalism.

Harry stared at his television screen. Ginny had been so excited to have a spring wedding, but Harry could not recall Tom expressing such an enthusiasm. What stuck out in his mind was Tom's puzzling attentiveness to the details of the wedding, and Tom's curiosity regarding the past events of Ginny's life.

Ginny _loved_ Tom. She'd confessed this love time and time again. The very first confession had taken shape as a delicate, uncertain whisper to Harry. It had been a shared secret between two friends huddled beneath a blanket in the middle of Creevey's corn field, under the starry night sky. 

Then that whisper had grown, later presenting itself as a confident declaration to the world while Ginny stood at the altar, her hands held in the palms of the man she would soon call her husband.

According to George, Tom had indeed thrown a fit at the police station and gotten himself kicked out. He'd been in his manor ever since, refusing to speak to anyone aside from Molly and Arthur.

Did Tom love Ginny? Given recent events, Harry was hard pressed to believe so. His previous doubts of Tom's culpability had been supplanted by an indescribable anger. As far as Harry was concerned, Tom was guilty _._ Guilty of harming Ginny, guilty of causing her disappearance.

But how to obtain proof? Details of the investigation were being kept quiet, shared only with family. With Tom.

Whenever he had a spare moment, Harry flipped through photographs on his phone. Albums and albums of Ginny and Tom's blissful wedding. These photos were all Harry had, and this was all he could do—examine the photos over and over again, searching for fault, searching for the missing element that would allow the rest of the pieces to fall into place.

Meanwhile, his new, distracted mannerisms had drawn attention. Public opinion of Harry was mixed. Most of his friends thought he was simply distressed and depressed, so they let him be. Others, mostly strangers, were certain he'd gone mad with grief. They averted their gazes when he walked by, unable to look him in the eye. The idea of Harry's unrequited love for Ginny persisted even now.

But the worst were those who thought he was deranged. They believed that _he_ had something to do with Ginny's disappearance. He was a spurned lover, an unwanted freak who couldn't stand to let good folk live their lives. Harry figured those rumours must have started with the Dursleys and paid them no mind.

The world moved on, but Harry grew no closer to answers or a resolution. The longer he spent reviewing material from the wedding, the more convinced he was that Tom had not loved Ginny at all. It was not love that Harry glimpsed in those dark eyes. It was not the same golden glow of adoration that radiated from Ginny when she held Tom's face in her hands.

Even if Tom knew _how_ to love, he did not love Ginny. Tom held no love for Ginny, yet he had married her anyway. It baffled Harry. Ginny had no money, no titles, no properties to boast of. Why make her vanish, why hurt her? What had Ginny ever done to deserve such a cruel, uncaring husband?

There were answers to be had—Harry only had to reach out for them, pry them from Tom's hands. So Harry was forced to take his own advice, the advice he had given Ginny in their usual booth at Padfoot's:

Go and talk to Tom.

* * *

Tom and Ginny's house was more of a manor than a homestead. Compared to the surrounding houses, it was downright palatial. Prior to Tom's arrival in their small town, this estate had sat empty for as long as Harry could remember. The owners lived in Australia, or so it was speculated. They had never come to visit their secondary dwelling.

There was a car parked in the driveway—Tom's car. It glittered under the frosty winter sun, glinting fiercely in a way that blinded Harry through the lenses of his glasses. As he walked past it, Harry noted that the tyres were new.

That gave him reason to stop dead in his tracks and stare, if only because he would have noticed and remembered a car as nice as this passing through Finnigan's. New tyres in this weather was not surprising—Harry even recognized the make of these winter ones—but where had Tom gotten them changed? 

Finnigan's was the only auto mechanic in town. Had Tom gone out of town for new tyres?

A chill skittered down Harry's spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold weather. Harry pulled his coat tighter around his body and kept walking.

Harry stepped onto the wide stone landing that led to the door, his hand moving to hover just over the doorbell. There was a wreath on the door, fresh green decorated in pine cones and tiny silver baubles. At the base of the wreath, a brilliant silver bow was artfully tied and tucked into the evergreen branches.

It did not feel like the holidays were approaching. Thoughts of Ginny accompanied Harry everywhere: her voice spoke frequently in his head, and her watchful eyes were witness to his half-cocked investigation.

Dreams of Godric's River plagued him every night now, waking him in the mornings with a breathless gasp and a nameless fear. As Harry counted the days since Ginny's disappearance, the shadows under his eyes grew deeper and darker.

Harry pressed down on the brass button, ringing the doorbell.

A chime echoed behind the grand wooden doors, signalling that there was a visitor. Harry tried to imagine Ginny in this large house with no one but Tom to keep her company. It must have been quite the adjustment for her to go from a household full of noisy brothers to a dignified mansion that housed only two.

A stiff breeze brushed against Harry's face. He shivered, jerking his body in a hop and shake, wishing he'd thought to wear a scarf. Then the door swung open, its large metal hinges silent as a mouse. As the entrance hall unveiled itself, Harry laid eyes on the manor's singular inhabitant.

Tom was wearing a navy blue button-down shirt that was tucked into plain brown trousers. It was a casual outfit that surprised Harry, for he had only ever associated Tom with suits and crisp white shirts.

Then Tom's questioning eyes landed upon him, sweeping up and down in a cursory way that made Harry's stomach swoop. Tom said nothing in greeting; he merely stepped back and gestured Harry into the entrance hall.

There was facial hair gathered along Tom's neck and jawline. Harry's immediate impression was that it was hilarious—society's standards for clean-shaven men would function as support for Tom's portrayal of a devastated husband.

The entrance hall was large and composed mostly of marble. Marble flooring, marble accents. A small Christmas tree draped in tinsel sat in the corner next to the staircase. Harry recognized it from its previous place of honour at the Burrow. That was Ginny's influence staring him in the face. She was sentimental about things like that.

Ginny owned a small wooden jewelry box that had been passed down from her grandmother. It housed all of the shitty holiday decorations they'd made at school, even the ones Harry had made and tried to throw away because they were, frankly, ugly as fuck. That box would be upstairs somewhere, buried amongst all of Ginny's new, shinier belongings.

Tom shifted, leaning his weight against one of the pillars that supported the walkway overhead. The silence was unnerving. Harry had come here to talk, to be the one who asked the questions, but now that he was confronted with the man he suspected of murdering his best friend, his words had run dry.

Harry cleared his throat. "How've you been?"

Tom's mouth curled into a half-smile. His arms unfolded from their closed position across his chest. "I've been better. And yourself?"

Harry couldn't vocalize it. What he felt could not be summarized in a simple sentence. The restless hours he'd spent agonizing over this very conversation melted like winter's first frost on his bedroom windowsill. He did not want to show any of his weakness to Tom. He did not want to let his anger run away with him.

He did not want Tom to win.

"Sleepless nights," Harry said slowly. "I expect you know what I mean."

"I do." Tom's amused expression sobered. He straightened and gestured to their left, to the living room. "Have you spoken with the Weasleys?" he asked as they walked.

"I didn't want to bother them."

Tom clicked his tongue once. The sound grated on Harry's ears. "There isn't much to say, I suppose. The police have little to work with, and what little they do have produces even less to follow up on."

They sat down. Tom in an armchair, and Harry on the loveseat. Both pieces of furniture were flawless black leather. Harry rubbed his hands together to warm them, a motion that drew Tom's attention.

"Forgive me. Did you need me to take your coat?"

"No." No to forgiveness, and no to the request.

Tom crossed his legs, one over the other, and let his heavy gaze wander over Harry's face. The look in his eyes was familiar. Harry had seen it before.

"Anything to drink? Coffee or tea? Wine?" The question was so casual that Harry had to stomp down the polite response that pressed up against his closed lips.

"No, thanks."

Tom hummed once, a low buzz that spilled into the tense atmosphere. At least, an atmosphere that was starting to feel tense on Harry's side of things. "I may indulge, then, if you'll excuse me."

A bottle was retrieved from the cabinet next to the empty fireplace. On the mantelpiece were photographs of Ginny and her family, Ginny and Tom, Ginny and Harry. Tom popped the cork of his bottle and poured out a glass of merlot. Harry glanced at the label—it was not Ginny's preferred brand.

"Does it help?" Harry found himself asking. To Tom's arched brow, he clarified, "Drinking."

Tom frowned, angling his head ever-so-slightly to the side. "A single glass of wine will hardly put me under, Harry. I don't make a habit of it, if that's your concern."

Harry fell silent. The familiarity of his name in Tom's mouth was discomfiting. It was not a level of acquaintance that had been earned. Not to mention Tom's implication—that Harry was concerned about him—sat wrongly in Harry's gut.

"We all have our ways of coping," Tom continued, in a drawl that was almost lazy. "Ginny... Ginny coped by burying everything away, by pretending everything was fine. How was I to know that she would run off?"

"She's your wife."

Harry was unable to hide the edge to his voice. His hands clenched in his lap, his fingertips digging into his palm.

Tom exhaled and set his glass aside. "You blame me for Ginny's disappearance. Your _best_ friend." The tone was not quite mocking, but the inflection was sharp, derogatory.

Harry said nothing. He would not rise to the bait.

"Do you know what her brothers told me the day she announced we were dating?" Tom asked into the silence. "They told me she was in love with _you._ They told me that any infatuation she had with me would pass, and that if I tried to interfere, I would meet the sticky end I deserved." Tom's smile returned, a rueful twist of his lips that eventually resettled into a line of neutrality.

"They came around, of course. I was everything that Ginny could ever dream of. If she couldn't have you, well, then she would have to settle, wouldn't she? She'd have to settle for a man who could give her the rest of what she needed." Tom gestured to the space around them, to the opulence and splendour that his wealth could afford. "Financial support for her and her family. A proper place to live in, with rooms fit for a queen."

"It's not like that," Harry said numbly. These were words he'd repeated to so many others, words that now soured on his tongue. He and Ginny had promised to take care of each other. They had promised. "We didn't feel that way about each other."

"Perhaps you didn't," Tom allowed, relaxing back in his chair. "But she certainly did. You were all she talked about. Her _Harry._ Her _rock."_ Tom laughed once, the sound full of self-deprecation, then bent forward, bracing his arms on his knees. "You think she was running from me? No, no, Harry. She was running from _you."_

"You're a fucking liar."

Harry could hardly move, he was shaking so hard, but he forced himself to his feet. Tom's words ignited everything all at once—anger, loathing, self-doubt—sending one emotion after the other rolling through his body in waves. Harry wanted to punch Tom's lights out. He wanted to hurl himself into the pain, into the connection of fist against flesh and bone.

"A fucking liar," Harry repeated, breathless, his teeth gritted hard enough to crack. "Ginny would never. She's stronger than you could ever be."

Tom sat back up, ran a hand through his hair. Then he stood, and Harry was struck dumb by the imposing presence Tom possessed, an aura of intimidation that could be called upon as easily as donning a mask.

"Do you really believe that? Look at us, Harry. The men she left behind." Tom drew closer, and Harry tensed, fight-or-flight instinct forcing its way to the forefront of his mind. "She is gone," Tom said coldly. "She was _weak._ Too weak to take what she wanted. Too weak to tell you the truth."

Then Tom's hand rose, pressing gracefully against Harry's chest, fingers splayed like a cage over Harry's heart, making each beat even more painful.

Harry couldn't breathe. Finally, he could place that familiar look in Tom's eyes. It matched the expression Tom had worn while asking his opinion on flowers for the wedding. It matched the way Tom looked at him now—full of rapture, full of _fascination_ —only this moment was far more potent. Far more dangerous.

"N-no," Harry said, his voice high and strangled. He jerked his own hands upwards and shoved hard, pushing Tom away from him, then stumbled back in disbelief. "No, you're _wrong."_

The violence in Tom's gaze did not relent. His eyes raked hungrily over Harry's face, over the defensive position of Harry's balled fists, over the tremble in Harry's knees that threatened to topple him to the ground at Tom's feet.

"You're wrong, and I'm going to prove it," Harry spat, stepping back even further, wondering if Tom would let him leave.

But Tom said nothing as Harry edged for the door. Instead, Tom's mouth twisted oddly, contorting his face into an expression that Harry had never seen on Tom before.

_Triumph._

* * *

Harry staggered into the cold winter air, his breath fanning out in heavy puffs of condensation. He did not stop running until he reached the main road. Then his energy ran out—he doubled over, wheezing for air, hands clammy and unsteady against his knees.

The world spun. Asphalt and dreary grey skies swam in and out of focus as Harry struggled to get a grip on himself. For an awful minute, Harry worried that he would pass out. His fingers dug into his trousers, the nails biting against the meat of his thighs. The mild pain was grounding. It restored clarity.

Harry breathed out, exhaled around the lump of guilt and regret that was rapidly expanding in his chest. Tom's deep voice drifted through his mind like a lazy show tune, a loop that was plastered over every square inch of his brain.

_You think she was running from me? No, no, Harry. She was running from_ you.

His lungs burned, not with physical pain, but emotional pain. Harry choked out what might have been a sob and moved his hand to clutch uselessly at his throat, uncaring of who saw him. His fingers tingled unpleasantly—they were trembling. Harry dropped his hand and shut his eyes.

He had gotten none of the answers he had wanted, but he was dead certain that Tom had done it. Tom was the one behind Ginny's disappearance. Tom had done it.

Repeating this fact had the peculiar effect of relaxing him. Harry inhaled and let certainty fill his lungs. Tom had done it. 

The way Tom spoke of Ginny, his entire demeanour callous and indifferent, was the ultimate proof. Tom could say all he wanted that Ginny had run off as the result of heartbreak. Harry knew the truth of his and Ginny's relationship. It was a truth that belonged only to him and Ginny. Ginny did not harbour any secret feelings for him—Harry would stake his life on it. His current guilt was rooted in a different failure; a failure to protect Ginny from Tom.

Harry went home. He made himself drink some water and take a shower, then collapsed onto his bed. Images of Tom's smug face invaded his mind, refusing to fade. Harry rolled onto his side and stared resolutely at his dull, eggshell-coloured wallpaper.

Was Ginny dead?

Harry did not want to confront this question, but what choice did he have? Tom was insisting that Ginny had run away, but he was the one behind her disappearance to begin with. Tom had made her disappear, but where had she gone? Somehow, Harry doubted that Ginny was tied up in the basement. Tom must have killed her. The sick feeling from before returned. Harry curled inwards, drawing his knees up to his chest. Ginny was gone. He was alone.

Did everyone believe Ginny had run away of her own volition? Had they bought the lies that Tom sold them, just like they had accepted him into their town? Harry was afraid of the answer.

The assumption that he and Ginny were in love with each other had never bothered him before. Now, though, it filled him with dread. They would blame him for this. They would not blame Tom, who was locked away in his house, bereft of his wife. They would blame Harry for breaking her heart.

Another black mark against him. Harry could never look any of the Weasleys in the eye again. Nausea swelled in his stomach—Harry fell out of the bed in his haste to grab the wastepaper basket.

The contents of his lunch were expelled from his mouth. Harry panted, trying to focus around the disgusting taste of his own vomit, and wiped at his chin with his hand. His hair, still damp from the shower, clung to his cheeks and forehead in sweaty clumps.

Harry dropped his head to the floor and paced his breathing. At least he hadn't accepted Tom's offer of a drink—not that he would trust anything from that bastard anyway.

After throwing up, Harry lost track of time, his eyes closed and his ear pressed to the floor. The occasional car passed by outside, headlights shining through his half-closed blinds to illuminate the carpet he was sprawled upon.

In his mind, he was apologizing to Ginny. One apology after another. He had promised to protect her. He had failed. Her piercing eyes followed him into sleep, merging with the heavy blue of Godric's River.

This time as the water took him, Harry did not fight back. The cold was a soothing balm, the rushing current a lullaby in his ears. He had weathered so much already, it was far easier to give up and let the river wash him away.

The water drank him in, stripped him down to nothing. Harry floated downstream, detached from his body, a drifting spirit. He'd never liked water as a child. He'd spent his teen years hating it and fearing it in equal measure. But now he greeted the river like an old friend, trusting that it would exact justice upon him.

The Dursleys called him a burden, a freak, a poison to society. They were not wholly wrong. All that Harry touched withered and died, a multitude of corpses swept away by the rivers of time. He had never learned how to be tender, how to cry when he was sad, how to build a future out of dreams. He had never learned to live a life untainted by pain.

Harry carried ghosts with him. He carried memories of their startled smiles at stupid jokes, their brightest, proudest achievements, their favourite foods for rainy days.

Everything that he loved about them lived on in his heart. That was the only good use for it, his heart—it didn't matter that it was keeping him alive. There were too many others who deserved the chance to live. They deserved it more than he did.

His parents. Ginny. _Ron—_

Harry missed Ron more than anything.

That grief was an ache that never let up. It was guilt that would never let him go. This pain had followed him in life, and it would follow him even in death.

When morning came, Harry felt hollow, empty of thought and feeling. His mouth was dry and gross and cracked, his hair flattened against the side of his face. His entire right arm was numb and prickly after sleeping on it. But none of that mattered.

Harry shuffled to his bathroom like a zombie and washed his face with water. He drank from the tap to soothe his parched throat, then examined his reflection. Haunted green eyes, waxen complexion. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, which was pretty much true. He hadn't slept through the night since the day Ginny had come to him for help.

There was little to be done about that now. He was awake, mostly-sane, and the way forward was clear to him. Harry had already failed so many times—failed the Weasleys, failed Ginny, failed himself—but there was one more promise he could do his best to make good on. One last course of action that would hurt no one but himself.

_If he's cheating on you, then I'll be first in line to dump his body in the woods._

Ginny might be dead, but Harry would avenge her. He could not be permitted to dwell in his guilt when there was work to be done. He could not rest while Tom tarnished Ginny's memory with lies.

Harry would not give in, not until one of their bodies was resting at the bottom of Godric's River.

Tom would die, or Harry would die trying to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are appreciated!! the third chapter is already written, but the fourth one i hope to finish for posting on tom's birthday <3
> 
> merry christmas to those who celebrate it 💕🍾✨


	3. no, no body, no crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was no escape. Harry could only hold still while Tom's gaze roamed over his face and body—like Harry was his property rather than the man who was going to put him six feet under the ground. 
> 
> It left Harry in the uncomfortable position of having to choose: either he had to become more discreet with his stalking, or he had to convince Tom to come to him. Harry knew what Tom wanted out of him—his submission—but he was not eager to give Tom any measure of satisfaction. 
> 
> Harry wanted Tom dead by Christmas. To make that happen, he would have to make a decision soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings on the previous chapter apply to this chapter, too

**Chapter 3**

_no, no body, no crime._

* * *

Life went back to normal. As normal as it could be, given that Ginny was still 'missing'. Everyone believed she had gotten cold feet regarding her marriage. Harry couldn't stand it. The judgmental eyes that followed him around were bad enough; it sickened him that Ginny's vibrant, courageous personality had been reduced to romance gossip fodder.

So Harry kept to himself. He only left the house for work and groceries, and when he wasn't at work, he made plans.

Then one afternoon, Molly Weasley showed up at Finnigan's.

Harry had been busy swapping tyres for the past several weeks. Snow was beginning to stick to the ground, triggering an inevitable rush of townspeople who had put off their winter tyre changes until the last minute. The garage was booked solid leading up to Christmas, and Harry was making excellent overtime.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry greeted. "What brings you here?"

Molly had lost weight since Ginny's disappearance. The friendly demeanour Harry was used to was nowhere to be seen; instead she stared at him like he was a particularly large bear with two heads that had had the gall to sit down at her table for Christmas dinner.

"Winter tyres?" he asked politely. "I'm afraid we're fully booked through the next two weeks—"

"Where is she, Harry?"

Harry's blood ran cold upon hearing the undisguised hatred in her tone.

"I don't know where Ginny is, Mrs. Weasley." When she failed to speak, he added, "I'm sorry. I'm sure the police are doing all they can."

Her hand rose slowly, pointing at him. "This is  _ your _ fault," she said. 

Harry should have felt hurt. He should have felt disappointed, or angry, or betrayed. Anything other than the  _ nothing _ that had taken up residence in every part of his body. There was only the cold, only the numbness, only the promising embrace of water that awaited him once his task was complete.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, still polite. Molly liked it when he was polite, he remembered. She had commented on it enough times that it had stuck around in his mind. "I don't know where she is. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Molly's face distorted with anger as she lunged towards him—Harry flinched backwards in shock.

"Do you even  _ care _ that she's gone? Or are you glad that you don't have to pretend anymore?"

"Pretend what?" Harry asked cautiously, taking another slow step back.

"You led her on," Molly accused, her voice shooting up several octaves, the flush of anger rising to her cheeks. "You led my daughter on, and then you broke her heart! She was happy with Tom, and you couldn't  _ stand _ it, could you? You wouldn't leave her alone!"

"I never led her on," Harry protested, then winced at how weak his own defense sounded. "I swear there was nothing going on between us. We're just friends."

"Bad enough you got her into all those fights at school," Molly continued loudly, as if he hadn't even spoken. "Encouraging her to get up to all kinds of terrible things! I gave you the benefit of the doubt for  _ years, _ Harry. I wanted to believe you were a good boy, that you would make my daughter happy someday. But now I see who you truly are."

Harry knew what she was about to say. It did not make her cruel judgment of him feel any better—in the end, it was only confirmation of what he already knew about himself.

"You are a sickness," she spat, shoving a finger in his direction. "A plague upon my family, as awful as Petunia warned me you were!" She had to stop, then, made breathless by her rage and lack of restraint, her chest heaving from the force of her shouting.

"You cost me my son," she whispered. The fight in her was draining away, dwindling down, exposing the raw emotions that lived underneath. "And now you've cost me Ginny, too."

Harry was stricken. The numbness from before was gone. The pain he'd fought to hold back was like ice water, soaking him to the bone. The sheer misery was too much to think about, too much to bear. Harry missed the emptiness, missed the distance from his agony and despair. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it to end, to lose his ability to think and feel and  _ hurt. _

"I didn't," he pleaded. "Mrs. Weasley, I swear."

_ It was an accident. _

Molly's face was streaked with tears and snot, the heat of her anger finally splintering and giving way to pure anguish. "I never want to see you again, do you hear me?" she sobbed, her voice cracking terribly in the middle. "Stay the  _ hell _ away from my family."

Harry could only stand there, absorbing the brunt of her temper, taking on the burden of her pain. It was, he thought, the least he could do.

"I'm sorry," he said, violently miserable. "I'm sorry, I w-won't. I won't reach out or anything, I swear. I'll leave you alone."

Molly's wild gaze fell upon him, her watery blue eyes shot through with streaks of red. Out of all the Weasley children, only Ginny and Ron had inherited their mother's eyes. 

As she stared at him, her breathing began to settle. "See to it that you do," she said. Her voice was softer now that she had composed herself. Harry noted the purple shadows under her lashes, the physical evidence of her grief. How many sleepless nights had she gone through, worrying over Ginny? How many more would there be while she waited for Ginny to come back?

Harry's face crumpled in on itself. Ginny would never be coming back.

Molly left. Harry stood there for long minutes after, thinking of his childhood, thinking of Ginny.

Maybe Molly was right. If he had set aside his stupid pride, he could have married Ginny. They could have been happy together, even if they were not in love. Harry could have kept their childhood dreams alive and convinced her to run off with him. They could have explored the world together.

Part of why Ginny had stayed in their small town was because of him. She loved him in her own way, just as he loved her in his. They had sworn to stay by each other, and it was not an oath they had made lightly.

Now that she was gone, what did he have left? He had no degree to his name. He worked at a garage. He lived in a town where people would forever hate him for the devastation he had caused.

All of this was true, and yet here he was, planning to murder the man who had revitalized their hometown into somewhere worth living. It was laughable, the course of his life, but he would not be deterred from it. Tom would die, and then Harry would find peace.

* * *

It was later that week when Tom began to make public outings. He was cordial to everyone he spoke with. He asked politely for space as he went about his business. Percy was a constant by his side, the best sort of deterrent, snapping at everyone who came within a six-foot radius of his boss.

Harry watched from a distance. What he needed was to get Tom alone. A direct invitation was out of the question; there could be no evidence left behind. The last thing Harry wanted was for Ginny's reputation to be further ruined by his own actions. Suspicion would be cast on him regardless, but there was no point in making it easy for them.

So his request had to be spur of the moment, and there had to be no witnesses to tie him to Tom's untimely disappearance.

Harry could be patient. He could wait for the right opportunity and go from there. His plans typically turned out well when he played them by ear, and one small variable in the grand scheme of things hardly mattered. All he had to do was lure Tom away for a little trip down Godric's River.

One of Harry's few inherited possessions was the small fishing boat that had belonged to his father. It was the only luxury item that Harry owned, and he had invested a decent sum of money into keeping in good condition. It would suffice for transporting the body.

As for after the murder, well—Harry had spent nearly a decade of his life cleaning the Dursley's house to his Aunt Petunia's unholy standards. Cleaning a crime scene could hardly be more difficult compared to that.

And after  _ that... _ Harry was in no hurry to hasten what came after Tom's death. So he could be patient.

Of course, Tom seemed intent on making the process as difficult as possible. Whenever they were near each other, Tom's eyes would seek him out, drawn towards him like a moth to a flame. This pattern repeated day after day, leaving no doubt that Tom's actions were just as intentional as Harry's were.

There was no escape. Harry could only hold still while Tom's gaze roamed over his face and body—like Harry was his property rather than the man who was going to put him six feet under the ground.

It left Harry in the uncomfortable position of having to choose: either he had to become more discreet with his stalking, or he had to convince Tom to come to him. Harry knew what Tom wanted out of him—his submission—but he was not eager to give Tom any measure of satisfaction.

Harry wanted Tom dead by Christmas. To make that happen, he would have to make a decision soon.

* * *

There was one week left till Christmas when Harry received a second visitor at Finnigan's Garage. This time, Seamus walked over instead of shouting from across the room. Harry had not expected to be approached—he and Seamus had not spoken much lately. If Seamus was stupid enough to believe the same lie as everyone else, then Harry didn't care enough to correct him or be friendly to him.

"Riddle's here to see you."

The flat tone made clear what Seamus thought of such a visit.

"Awesome," Harry said, injecting as much sarcasm into his response as he could. "I'll just skip out to reception for a fun little chat." He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up.

Following his visit to Tom's house, Harry had gone through all the recent records here at the garage. Neither Tom nor Ginny had brought their cars in for servicing over the past three months. It was confirmation that Tom had gone out of town to get his tyres changed—and the only reason to have tyres changed out of town was because the old tyres had contained evidence. That the winter weather provided an excellent excuse was probably a bonus.

Harry shoved his way into the main part of the building. It was warmer here because the heating was turned on full blast to keep their clients toasty and comfortable. Tom was dressed in a long dark grey coat and standing by the front desk. In his hands were a pair of black leather gloves. Upon spotting Harry, he tucked the gloves into his pocket.

"Harry," greeted Tom. "I was hoping I'd catch you here today."

Harry made a show of glancing around. "Left your assistant at the office?"

"Something like that." Tom's friendly smile dimpled on one side. He straightened the lapels of his coat and inclined his head in the direction of the door. "Walk with me?"

"Seamus will wonder where I've buggered off to."

"Ah." Tom arched a brow. "And you care what he thinks?"

Harry wasn't in the mood for Tom's mind games. "I work here, so yeah. I kind of have to give a shit."

The pretense of politeness melted off of Tom's face. In its place was a cold mask. "A moment, then." 

Tom swept past, moving so swiftly that Harry nearly fell over in his scramble to get out of the man's way. The door just behind Harry squealed loudly, then fell silent. The sharp notes of expensive cologne lingered in the air like rot.

A minute passed. Harry's heart rate had only just resettled when Tom came back through the doorway. "Lucky you," Tom said breezily. "You've got yourself an extra fifteen minutes of break, darling."

"Don't call me that," Harry snapped, but he still followed Tom to the exit.

Tom held the door open, gesturing with a flourish. "After you,  _ Harry." _

Harry trudged into the icy parking lot. The pavement had been freshly-salted last night; granules crunched under Harry's boots as he breathed in the crisp December air. His coat was inside, but if this walk was as short as Tom claimed it would be, Harry would be back at the garage before he had the time to catch a cold.

"So what do you want?" Harry asked cautiously. He wanted to stuff his hands into the pockets of his jeans to warm them, but he needed his hands free in case Tom tried something. Tom's predatory gaze was unfortunately familiar to him now, therefore he would not be taking any chances.

Tom ignored the question and kept walking; Harry had to jog a bit to keep up. The sky was a luminous grey, the sheer cloud cover backlit by the brilliant sun. Tom cut a fine silhouette against the picturesque winter backdrop—the shape of his nose was outlined by a tinge of pink, a reminder of the flesh and blood that lurked beneath the pale, marble-like skin.

"Hey," Harry said, irritated. His hand snapped out to grab Tom's elbow. As his fingers caught on the stiff fabric, Tom halted, freezing in place so suddenly that Harry jolted half a step forward before also coming to a stop.

Slowly, Tom turned to face him. Harry's heart thumped loudly in his chest; he hoped that it was the only evidence of his frazzled nerves.

"Answer my question," Harry bit out, glaring.

Tom smirked. "I came here for you," he said, his tone casual, as if the answer was obvious. "Why else? You left so  _ abruptly _ the other day. One might have thought you were… afraid of me."

Harry removed his hand with a grimace. He wanted to put some distance back between them, but Tom's taunt had set his feet stubbornly in place. Had that taunt been intentional? Was Tom manipulating him even now?

"Consider it to be because I couldn't stand the sight of your face anymore."

Tom's smug expression did not falter. "Hatred is all fine and well. Now,  _ apathy _ —that is much more difficult to work with."

"Ha," Harry remarked, unamused. "Well, if you're here for  _ my _ company, I don't think I've got anything left to say to you. Sorry to have wasted your time."

Harry steeled himself, then swiveled on the spot, turning his back to Tom. They were in public, he thought. In plain sight, in view of the main street. Tom would not try anything brash where people could see them.

That logic did not stop Tom's soft voice from calling after him. "The night before Ginny left us, she came to talk to me. Do you know what she accused me of?"

Harry's hands went numb as his last conversation with Ginny came flooding back. He clenched his hands into fists as he took a deep breath, willing himself to stay strong. He did not turn around, though—if he did, he would be in very real danger of socking Tom in the face.

"Yeah? And what'd she say?" Harry retorted. "That you're a manipulative asshole?"

Harry heard the slow sound of Tom's exhale. "Nothing as harsh as that. No, you see, she accused me of apathy. Of not caring for her. My lovely wife. One year into our marriage and the spark was already lost—or so she thought. Could hardly be true if it was never there to begin with."

Harry gazed at the sky, praying for his restraint to hold, and spun back around. "Are you  _ still _ trying to push that on me? Ginny didn't love me. Not like that. That is utter bullshit and we both know it. Just because you've got the rest of the town convinced—"

Tom might have the town fooled, but that wouldn't matter for much longer. Harry was going to kill him.

That thought held Harry steady. It kept his head clear. Harry let his hands relax enough to hang down at his sides.

"Ginny grew angry when I couldn't give her the answers she wanted," Tom said conversationally. "Answers that would give her a way out of her sad, loveless marriage. She was distraught. She accused me of seeing someone else." Tom laughed in a cold way that made Harry's blood boil. "But I could hardly be blamed for that, as I'm sure you've realized. She should have tried harder to keep me interested."

"She  _ loved _ you!" Harry seethed, his desire to rein in his anger torn to shreds by the smug look on Tom's face. "How can you stand there and talk about her like that?"

Tom’s words were enough to drive anyone mad, Harry thought wildly. It was a wonder that Ginny had not lost her temper sooner. But then again, Tom had proven himself adept at avoiding blame, and Ginny had been too confused by her husband's sudden change in behaviour to be properly mad with him.

"Past tense?" Tom asked, raising a brow.

"What?" Harry snapped out, unthinking.

"You claim that she 'loved' me," Tom said pointedly.  _ "Past tense." _

Harry fell silent. He was unable to voice his true thoughts without arousing suspicion. His belief that Ginny was dead, and that Tom had been the one to kill her.

Tom eyed him a moment longer, then resumed walking. The two of them had to have been standing out here for longer than fifteen minutes. Maybe it was time for Harry to make an excuse and leave. Anything Tom said about Ginny would only make Harry more upset. If this conversation continued, Harry would end up doing something hasty.

"My father," Tom said suddenly, dragging Harry's attention back to him, "was the heir to a large fortune. He was taught that money solved all problems. My mother, on the other hand, was born into a lower class—but my father loved her regardless. They married young. She was the only person he loved, and she died giving birth to me." Tom smiled without humour, his lips thinning out. "To say that my father raised me would be an understatement. To  _ raise _ a child implies a degree of care—none of which I received. Any capacity for love my father possessed, it died when he was widowed."

Harry blinked. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

Tom clasped his hands behind his back, his shoulders straightening. "I know my father blamed me for her death. He could hardly stand the sight of me on a good day, but I had no other close family to rely on in his stead. No grandparents to turn to for advice, no siblings to seek companionship with. My father arranged for a Christmas family dinner every year, and that was the only time I ever saw my other relatives. So it was a lonely existence, growing up on my own, even with an excess of luxury at my fingertips." Tom smiled again, this time wider. It failed to be wholly believable. "Imagine my unending delight when Ginny informed me she had not one, but  _ five  _ older brothers. A family fit for two, she told me. A family to share."

A family to share. Harry swallowed thickly. Those words had once been said to him, too.

"Love is a powerful thing," Tom murmured, his gaze softening as it fell upon Harry, who could not help the way his body tensed in response. "Grief even more so."

There was a pause as the words sank in, their meaning lost in an ocean of confusion. Harry no longer knew what Tom was trying to get at.

Then Tom's eyes grew brighter, shining with an exhilaration that was unnerving. "But you, Harry, are an outsider like I am. You see the world for what it truly is."

Harry was itching to run away and not look back. He felt cornered by Tom's fanatical gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You see how backs have turned on you, how readily they betray you and refuse to listen to logic or reason. How they dig their claws in without remorse. But these are also self-inflicted wounds. Wounds that occur when you invest yourself in those who will inevitably abandon you at the first opportunity." Tom paused mid stride, whirling around. His hands were thrown out, their palms spread in an earnest appeal for Harry to listen and agree. "Those who are weak-minded will welcome whatever offers them the quickest comfort, they will distort the truth until it is ruined, made disgusting and unrecognizable by grief and pain."

Tom's voice had turned pleading, almost desperate. Something about this struck a chord in Harry, so when Tom stepped closer, for once Harry did not pull away. 

"They don't care who they hurt," Tom said fiercely. "The town that claims to care for Ginny Weasley would sooner throw one of their own to the dogs rather than admit to their own failures." Little by little, Tom's hands lowered, then stretched out, crossing the chasm between them and taking Harry's hands into his own.  _ "They _ are the ones who failed her," Tom said gently. "Not you." 

Harry's breath froze in his throat, but Tom only continued, still in that same kind tone, "They may disparage her memory, Harry, but have no doubt that their inner demons will someday destroy them."

It was wrong. It felt wrong. But Harry was caught up in the thrall of Tom's speech. He was unable to articulate his thoughts well enough to argue. "I don't—that doesn't matter to me. It doesn't matter to me what they think about me."

"Oh, I know it doesn't," Tom said soothingly. His hands were startlingly warm as they closed over Harry's, covering them up. "But it matters to you what they think of  _ her. _ A woman driven mad by heartbreak. Emotional. Weak. Reduced to a love interest even in the eyes of her own family." Tom sneered, and then his face contorted, the features sharpened by an unexpected fury. "Grief is worse than weakness. Grief  _ destroys. _ It twists and disfigures without fail, leaving multiple victims in its wake."

Victims like Tom, who were left to fend for themselves. Harry could acknowledge the cause of Tom's anger, even if he disagreed with its results. Tom's childhood had been unfair; a child should not be blamed by their parent for such a tragic event.

Grief was not supposed to last forever.

No, that wasn't true. Harry didn't quite have the right to say that.

Years later, the skeletons in his own closet continued to rattle, the bones as white as they'd been the day he had carried them in. Those bones had never held still long enough to collect dust. 

Grief may not last, but his guilt certainly did.

Harry's hands were still held hostage by Tom's tender grasp. As they stood there, the frenzied fire faded from Tom's eyes, replaced by an eagerness that was impossible for Harry to avert his gaze from.

"Grief brings misfortune in its own ugly way. But you, Harry—" Tom's voice broke off, sounding choked, then took on a tone of utter reverence as Tom ran his fingertips over Harry's wrists, tracing endless circles over the sensitive skin. "You are made gorgeous by your grief. Forged by fire, birthed into beauty."

The words were raw, hypnotic, the honest quaver of each syllable as potent as the gentle, tentative touch of Tom's hand. Harry couldn't move, could hardly think or breathe. He was losing track of himself—of where he was, of which pieces of him were his own and which belonged to Tom.

"Shaped by the hands that harmed you," Tom breathed. "Reared to manhood by memories of the dead. Even now, you hold fast to your defiance. Even now, you wield your strength in the palm of your hand, more powerful than any god. Even now, you find yourself fascinated by the morbid. Drawn to the decay that razes cities to the ground and transforms good men into mad ones.

"I am the same," Tom promised. "Cut from the same cloth of neglect and despair. Built by those same hands of harm." To emphasize his point, Tom's grip constricted, clutching with a deliberate pressure that squeezed the delicate bones of Harry's hands together. "So you see, all I do has reason, and the reason is clear: the parts of the world that can be laid to waste, must be.

"It is the only way forward. The vapid cruelty must be culled, the ignorant sheep brought to heel," Tom said. Then he began searching Harry's face, the veil of obsession giving way to a frightening acuity. "Only then may we form a society that respects the  _ true _ balance of things."

Harry did not know what expression flashed across his face in response to this, but it must not have been kind because Tom pulled back, the fevered look in his eyes shuttered, leaving only blankness.

"Think on what I've told you," Tom said curtly, at last releasing Harry's hands from their imprisonment. "I have faith in you."

Harry said nothing, but Tom did not wait for a response—he shifted backwards a few steps, his gaze trained on Harry's face, then turned on his heel and walked off.

It took several minutes for Harry to regain his common sense and walk back to the garage. The tips of his ears were frozen solid, but his hands were uncomfortably warm. Harry shook them out, trying to dispel the phantom sensation of Tom's touch.

His skin was crawling all over, and for a second Harry was tempted to stick his hands into the nearest snowbank, but he had already wasted enough time talking to Tom. Seamus was going to be pissed that he had left in the middle of their busiest season for a personal matter. Harry would just have to suck it up and get back to work.

Tom's speech persisted like an earworm throughout the rest of Harry's shift, spilling into every minute of every hour. It was not until later that Harry realized what had him feeling so shaken.

Tom had spoken to him with familiarity, like he had peered into the depths of Harry's soul and then proceeded to dismantle it into children's building blocks.

Harry had only ever spoken to Ginny about the Dursleys. Had she told Tom? Had Tom somehow uncovered Harry's childhood on his own?

There were few explanations for the explicit way Tom had spoken about mistreatment and abuse. If he and Harry really were alike, if their respective lives were the consequence of devastation and misery, then maybe it made sense for Tom to know, to understand, to recognize the signs and acknowledge the past that Harry wished to forget.

Tom had looked upon Harry and identified his own likeness. He believed that they were kindred spirits, that the shared pain of their mangled histories would bring them together.

He was wrong.

Tom wanted the world to burn, wanted for people to suffer like he had as a child. He would torch everything without a shred of regret. Fire was deadly, destructive, the weapon of choice for those who did not care about collateral damage. It burned without discrimination, eliminating all life in its path.

Water was different. It was patient with its path of destruction, eroding stone slowly over time. Water nurtured the treasured lifeforms that lived in its depths and flooded the rest to oblivion. Water gave life, brought life to all living things, and it also could take life away.

When Tom met his untimely end by Harry's hand, he would not burn, would not be engulfed by flames. When Harry killed him, his body would be washed away by the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i started on the next chapter, but we'll see if i have it ready to post by tom's birthday -sweats- encouragement is always appreciated <3


	4. i wasn't letting up until—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A/N: UPDATED CONTENT WARNING TAGS FOR THIS CHAPTER]
> 
> As children, he and Ginny had sat here and talked to the water. They had come here every year. Then they'd grown into adults and Harry had started making excuses. Eventually Ginny had stopped asking. The guilt of avoiding this place was nothing compared to the guilt he felt once he was here. He had done all that he could to avoid coming here. He’d done all that he could to forget about the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THE UPDATED TAGS AND ARCHIVE WARNINGS. the ending of this story was not planned from the start, and as a result i have had to change the tags/warnings.
> 
> happy birthday tom riddle, you are an awful bastard <3

**Chapter 4**

_i wasn't letting up until—_

* * *

The days till Christmas Eve dwindled to zero. Harry continued his routine of following Tom around. He withstood the weight of Tom's searching gaze, stared unflinchingly into the dark eyes of the monster he hoped to soon bury in the cold winter ground.

Prior to his conversation with Tom, he had been reluctant to give in to Tom's overtures, but it was clear now that there would be no other way. Tom was obsessed with him for whatever reason, and this obsession grew stronger the more Harry engaged with him. It was clear that only one lure would work in this case, and that lure was Harry.

Harry kept close to Tom throughout the week, but on the day before Christmas Eve, he stayed home. He hoped that his absence would drive Tom mad; more so because Tom had planned a rather public gathering at the town hall to celebrate his company's—and consequently the town's—good fortune this year.

Such a blatant snub would drive Tom to seek him out, just as he had following their conversation at the house. With the upper hand, Harry would lead, and Tom would be forced to follow.

Christmas Eve found Harry once again at Padfoot's bar. The atmosphere was quiet but joyful—Sirius had put up a truly excessive amount of lights and decorations. A few patrons had come out to celebrate the festive evening with a drink, and they kept Sirius busy at the bar while Harry tucked himself into his and Ginny's regular booth.

Harry tapped a restless finger on top of the dog-shaped salt shaker. This bar would be the first place Tom would go looking for him, and if Tom didn't wind up poking his head around these parts, Harry would show up on the man's doorstep himself. Either way, he thought, tonight would end it for good.

But Hermione had mentioned Tom asking after him at the town hall party, so Harry felt there was a good chance that Tom would show up here tonight. Despite having no affection for Ginny, Tom had still known her, and he had known her well enough to make her unhappy. Well enough to spin a tale about her that was blatantly false, despite what everyone else seemed to believe.

The hours slid by, and the bar slowly emptied out. Sirius, dressed in a bright red apron patterned with tiny cartoon reindeer, came over to sit with him.

"Did you want anything? Remus told me you didn't eat."

Harry shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."

"You've got to keep your strength up," Sirius chastised. "You'll catch your death in this weather, Harry."

Food was not high up on his list of priorities at the moment. When Harry wasn't preoccupied with analyzing Tom's behaviour, he was worrying about what he planned to do. Objectively, Harry knew murder would be a difficult task. Or at least it would be for someone like him who genuinely cared about human life and was loath to see it go to waste.

Harry could not imagine what the violence he'd seen in movies would feel like in real life—the gurgle of blood in dying lungs, the snapping of fragile bones under the harsh blow of a metal bat. Not that he planned on doing anything as crude as that, but—

Sirius shot him a patient look that was loaded with sympathy. "Well, I'm really glad you came out. I know we're not family, Harry, but I still consider you to be part of mine. There's no one else Remus and I would rather spend Christmas Eve with." He gave Harry's hand a light pat. "You'll have to tell me how you like our gift, yeah? I spent about five hours wrapping it and everything. Remus was this close to strangling me with the ribbons because of how long it took."

"Sure, sure," Harry said, attempting a smile, trying to sound enthused. "You'll have to let me know what you think of mine."

It did sadden Harry to know that, in all likelihood, he would not get to know what Sirius thought of his gift.

"Don't rile me up," Sirius warned. "I wake  _ early _ for presents. Unless you want a six am wake up call, you best retract your hasty statement, kiddo."

"I swear, I don't mind."

Sirius squinted at him. "Listen, I know it's a shitty Christmas this year—"

"C'mon, Sirius, I really don't—"

"Hey, no. I want you to listen, so you're going to listen. I know it's been shitty, and I know you've been feeling it for weeks now." Sirius grimaced and cast a weary glance around the empty restaurant. "People—they say what they want, sometimes. And it's fucked as all hell, but you've gotten this far. You're not a quitter, Harry. You're a good kid, and I'll be damned if I see the town run you into the ground over this. Whatever happened with Ginny, it is not your fault."

If only Sirius knew. Harry's insides twisted with guilt. It hurt him to not confide in Sirius. It was a physical pain in his chest that felt worse than his anxiety over dealing with Tom. Sirius had seen him at his worst, so why was this suddenly different? When had he let himself slip so far away, so out of the reach of the few people who cared for him?

Harry did know why, though—he was better off alone. If he was on his own, then no one else would be hurt because of him. If he was alone, then no one would have to miss him once he was gone.

But before that, there were more plans to lay. A trap to build.

"Tom hates me," Harry said dully. "He blames me for Ginny running away."

Sirius drew back, likely thrown by Harry's bluntness. "Tom? I don't think—"

"He came by my work the other day to harass me. Asked to speak to me. He blames me," Harry repeated, holding his voice steady, forcing the lies out even though they tasted like bile. "He thinks she only married him to make me jealous. We got close to throwing fists, but I think he realized he wouldn't be able to take me in a fair fight."

A pause. A frown. "I suppose I can understand why he feels that way," Sirius muttered. Then his eyes fixed upon Harry again. "But that is  _ not _ your fault. Do not blame yourself for that."

Harry shrugged as if it didn't matter one way or the other. He had given Hermione and Seamus the same story. Most people had already heard about his altercation with Mrs. Weasley. Harry hoped that all of this would be enough to cast suspicion on Tom if things went horribly wrong—if Tom got to him first.

"Maybe what you need is to get out of this place," Sirius suggested. This time he gave Harry's hand a firm, comforting squeeze. "Just drive as far away from here as you can. Travel to new places, meet new people. You're young and you don't have anything keeping you here. I'll even loan you my bike, how about that?"

"I—" Harry couldn't do it. He could not, in good conscience, say yes to this offer. It would give Sirius the false hope of a happy future that Harry was never going to achieve. It would make his inevitable departure worse.

"I really think it would help. When I was your age, I was out there experiencing the world." Sirius' hand was too warm, his voice too kind. Kinder than Harry felt he deserved, given what he was going to do. What he had already done. "Don't let this town hold you back, Harry. You've got a good head on your shoulders and your whole life ahead of you."

"I'll think about it," Harry said quickly. He forced himself to shuffle out of the booth. He grabbed his coat and struggled to put his arms through the sleeves. "I think I need to go home. To think. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine." Sirius watched him with sad eyes, then shook the melancholy away, a veil of cheer falling over his face. "So long as you keep coming in, okay? I haven't seen enough of you lately."

Harry half-smiled in return, but it must have fallen flat because Sirius did not look reassured. There was little that Harry could do now to muster up the energy to fake a convincing response.

"Take care," Harry said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—he hoped it was passable. "Tell Remus I said 'Merry Christmas.'"

"Will do."

Harry turned away, the sight of Sirius' concern suddenly too much to bear, and headed to the door.

* * *

The parking lot was deserted save for Sirius and Remus' car parked in the far corner. Tom's car, with its new winter tyres, was nowhere to be seen.

Harry blinked blearily at his surroundings, feeling the cold seep into his bones.

It was disappointing to realize his original plan had not worked. Tom had not shown up. His backup plan—if it could even be called that—was to show up at Tom's house, but it didn't sit quite right. Harry had come to Padfoot's to find closure from losing Ginny, but he had failed there as well.

Memories of Ginny's dimpled smile brought fresh waves of despair. Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers—purchased secondhand and the world's ugliest colour, according to Ginny—and tipped his head back, wishing the sky could give him answers.

There was one other place for him to visit tonight. Harry had not been there in years, but tonight he could be persuaded to make an exception. It was a long walk from here, but he had the time. The town was sliding towards midnight, but the hour felt less important now that he had a new goal in mind.

Harry wound through the main streets of the town he'd grown up in, past the homely neighbourhoods of small families with children, past the plots of farmland owned by the Diggorys and the Macmillans.

The main docks were a decent walk from his childhood haunts, but that had never deterred him, and it had certainly never deterred any of the Weasley children. They had wandered these spaces together, having adventures and battling imaginary monsters. They had grown up here.

Well—some of them had grown up here. One of them had not.

A chill crept over him. The air grew colder and colder as he shuffled step by step into the darkness. Every shadow flickered ominously in the peripherals of his vision, and every crunch of snow beneath his boots was eerily loud. In his right jacket pocket was the cold weight of a handgun. It didn't feel right to have it there, but then again, every step he took felt like a fresh shovelful of dirt laid on his own grave.

This year, the weather was far too icy for holiday celebrations to be held comfortably out on the water. The wooden dock was frosted over with ice. Harry sat down on it anyway, tugging his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. The moon illuminated the slow rush of the river beneath it.

Harry tugged the hood of his coat over his head and exhaled a faint puff of condensation. He gazed down at the pitch-black ice water, the sight of which sent a tremor of unease down his spine. It was too dark for him to glimpse his own reflection; a small mercy. No doubt he looked something awful. He'd been caught up in the misery of his own making, skipping meals and forgetting to shower.

"Hey, mate," Harry said to the river. "It's been a while." He lowered a hand to the dock, to the frozen plank of wood. The cold nipped at his fingertips. "I dunno if Ginny ever came by while I was gone…"

As children, he and Ginny had sat here and talked to the water. They had come here every year. Then they'd grown into adults and Harry had started making excuses. Eventually Ginny had stopped asking. The guilt of avoiding this place was nothing compared to the guilt he felt once he was here. He had done all that he could to avoid coming here. He’d done all that he could to forget about the river.

The waters lapped against the surrounding boats, their bobbing motions quiet and judgement-free.

Harry closed his eyes. "She's gone." He let the words hang in the air, imagining the response. Then he added, "But maybe you know that already. Maybe she's with you."

It was a nice thought. A far kinder thought than Harry deserved to have. In a fair world, a just world, Ginny would be with her brother. Two of the people that Harry loved the most, together once again.

Harry opened his eyes. Clarity was trickling into his mind, drenching his memories. Memories of him and Ginny struggling to close the gap that lay between them, the gap that Ron had left behind.

That was what they had done, wasn't it? They had filled the gap for each other. Harry had taken on the role of Ginny's older brother. He'd been the boy who would tease her when her mother forced her to wear pink, the boy who would get into fights at school with the boys who tried to kiss her.

And Ginny—she'd become his best friend. She'd worn overalls and chopped off all her hair with scissors and told Harry's bullies to fuck off if they knew what was good for them. She was the only one who'd had any right to forgive him for anything, and now she was gone.

If there had ever been a chance for them to become something more, something like lovers, it had been lost when Ron Weasley died.

Harry sensed the approaching footsteps before he heard them. The soft thunk of heavy boots on the docks, the crackle of ice echoing through the air like the sound of bones snapping.

"Hello," Harry said, not daring to turn around. The gun in his pocket was as heavy as a stone, dragging him down.

The footsteps came closer. Harry tensed, waited, and was relieved when Tom dropped down on his left side. The side without the gun.

"Good evening, Harry. Nice night for a walk?" Tom asked lightly, angling his head to the sky.

"Something like that."

Tom was humming softly. It might have been a Christmas song, but Harry could hardly hear over the buzzing in his head, the static of anxiety that clouded his senses.

"I never understood the appeal of a coastal town,” Tom said eventually. “Lazy weather for lazy people, my father used to say."

Harry didn't answer. He didn't dare move, either.

"I missed you yesterday," Tom continued, maintaining his conversational tone. "At the town hall party. I asked after you to no avail."

"Sorry to disappoint. Wasn't feeling quite that social."

"Mmm. There is, of course, more value to be found with an  _ intimate _ conversation." Tom paused, shifting his body so that he could glance in Harry's direction. "Have you given more thought to what I said?"

Harry bit back an impulsive, sarcastic response and said, "And if I have?"

"I'd love to hear what you have to say."

The words were so genuine. Tom's eyes glittered earnestly, the curve of his smile as beguiling as the crescent moon. He was made more gorgeous by the moonlight, pale skin flawless like that of a marble statue.

"I want to ask you something, first." It slipped out without much thought. Harry pressed his lips closed, the better to still his chattering teeth.

Tom raised a brow. Then the brow lowered, the slight expression of surprise melting away. "Ask away, darling."

"Why did you marry Ginny?"

"Ah." Tom shifted back, hands clad in black leather gloves splayed out on the dock as he shifted his weight onto them. "Ginny was a means to an end, as I'm sure you've realized."

"A means to an end," Harry repeated numbly. He was driven only by his need to know, to understand the motivations of this murderer. Maybe knowing would give him the courage to draw his gun and pull the trigger. "What end?"

"I came here with the intention of setting my roots down in a small, coastal town, to seize the opportunity for power and wealth. But a private space like this required, shall we say, a  _ compassionate _ touch. Small towns can be so fickle, you see." Here Tom scoffed, making clear what he thought of the community he had chosen to infiltrate. "To endear myself to the masses, I required an opening. The Weasleys were the perfect choice—influential but poor, traditional yet amicable to strangers wooing their youngest daughter." Tom smiled dangerously. "The title of husband does wonders, transforming even the most dubious of outsiders into charming young men ready to rear hordes of screaming brats."

"So you didn't love her."

The derision returned to Tom's fine features. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "My love is not to be wasted on the  _ insignificant." _

It was different to hear the truth aloud, that Tom did not love Ginny. Harry had to force his lungs to work, to pull oxygen into his body. It infuriated him to know that Ginny's legacy would be reduced to someone who was to be pitied. He hated that she would be remembered as the poor, unhappy girl who had failed to make the most of her circumstances.

Most of all, Harry hated that he would be remembered as the man who had pushed her away, while Tom would be remembered as the good man who had lost her. Tom did not deserve someone as kind as Ginny. Harry also did not deserve her, but he had tried, vainly, to be a good person.

Ginny did not deserve either of them, but it was Tom who had squandered the gift of Ginny's love. He had made a mockery of her heartfelt affections. He had killed her.

"You're a sick bastard," Harry seethed, scrambling to his feet. He was shaking, his vision spotting black and blue around the edges. "You killed her. I  _ know _ you did."

"Harry, Harry, Harry." Tom clicked his tongue in a disappointed manner. When he rose, it was graceful. Predatory. "Little Ginny was sweet, but she could hardly hold my interest. Not the way you can. From the moment I met you, I knew you were special. I knew she would have to go, to make way for  _ us _ to be together."

"Us?" Harry was frozen in place, rushing water roaring in his ears. He was motionless as Tom took his hand and held it in a gentle grip, thumb brushing over the back in a loving caress.

"You see, Harry," breathed Tom, his eyes alight with fervor as he bent his head and pressed a tender kiss to Harry's knuckles, "for the past two years, my only desire, my  _ true _ desire… has been  _ you." _

"No." Harry would have stumbled back if not for Tom's hold on his hand, if not for the terror that shot through his veins.

Tom only smiled. "I asked after you, Harry. I asked my  _ darling _ wife about you, and then she opened up to me so easily. You were her everything before she met me. But once she had me, suddenly there was another person to confide all her troubles in. She told me all about her sad, stressful childhood, about being  _ misunderstood _ and growing up  _ poor." _ Tom tugged on Harry's hand, yanking him forward. A smirk slid over his lips. "She even told me about her dear, dead brother."

"No." Harry was horrified, unable to believe what he was hearing. "No, she would never—"

"Yes, she did," Tom continued, his voice lowering to a level that was barely audible. To Harry, he might as well have been shouting what he said next. "Poor Ron Weasley, drowned at Godric's River. Such a  _ terrible _ tragedy."

The darkness was closing in. Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. "It was an accident."

"So defensive," Tom purred. His gaze was mesmerizing, his irises like deep pools of black ice. "But I believe you, Harry. Do you believe me?"

Harry shook his head, tried to pull his hand out of Tom's grasp. Tom was too close, too close, too  _ close. _ "You're a liar."

Tom's other hand rose slowly like an ocean wave, caressing the left half of Harry's face. His thumb swept just underneath Harry's lower lip, the touch cool like ice. Harry felt he must have been drugged. That explained why he could not think clearly, why Tom's presence did such strange things to him.

"If I am a liar," Tom asked quietly, "then what does that make you?"

"You're a murderer, too," Harry spat. He twisted his face away from Tom's hand and pulled back.

Tom laughed, half-mad, his expression full of delight. "And you've lured me out here for a moonlit stroll, is that it? You've hardly a leg to stand on, my love." Then Tom was looming over him, moonlight catching on his cheekbones and tossing shadows over the lower parts of his face. "You have impressed me by coming this far—I didn't think you would have the nerve. But I have learned you are simply  _ full _ of surprises."

Harry had never felt such contempt in his whole life. Not even for the Dursleys, who had hit him and left him in the cupboard under the stairs to starve. Harry stared, his heart beating so fast he could barely breathe. Tom was staring back at him with a wild smile, white rows of teeth bared.

Deranged, that was the word that came to mind.

"I like surprises," Tom mused. His eyes narrowed in on Harry's eyes, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. The scar on his forehead, normally covered up by his unruly hair. "I like  _ you." _

Harry didn't want this psychopath to like him. He didn't like what it implied, that he was someone a psychopath would like. It made him feel sick. His heart was rotting, caving in on itself, giving way to decay.

Tom drew closer. Tom was a sickness, too. A plague upon this town, but in a different way. The misery and death that Tom wrought was subtle but intentional.

If they were alike, he and Tom, then maybe it made sense for Tom to want him.

"Beautiful," Tom declared, with reverence, as if his inspection of Harry was now complete. His gloved hand traced the line of Harry's jaw, the plush leather soft against Harry's cold skin. "You are beautiful," Tom said gently, and Harry's mouth opened in protest, but he was too slow—Tom descended upon him like a lion, and Harry was too weak to resist.

Their lips met. Harry struggled, but Tom's breath choked him, lips sealed over Harry's mouth. The oppressive heat of Tom's breath was searing, scalding and warping the flesh that it touched. Harry's body contorted, bending backwards, but Tom's grip was ironclad, unstoppable. He was too strong, too fast, and Harry's mind was too confused to fight back. Harry felt his skin burn as Tom's fingers squeezed down, hard enough to bruise. Tom's hands were everywhere, on his shoulders, wrapped around his neck, buried in the thick mass of his hair.

Harry couldn't breathe, but he could feel the heat of Tom's hands winding through his hair, gloved fingers knotting in the curls. His throat felt raw, and all he could think was how good it was, to be held, to be touched, to be kissed and cradled. It was so good, and it was so wrong. Harry was drowning in his own lust, a lust he hadn't felt in years—he hadn't felt this  _ alive _ in years.

Tom drew back, breathing in gasps, his eyes so intense that the desire radiating from them was warmer than any blazing fireplace. Then Tom leant forward, as if to kiss Harry again, but shockingly, he did not. Instead, his hands rose to cup Harry's face. Tom's fancy gloves had vanished at some point—it was now Tom's bare palms that caressed Harry's flushed skin.

"I'm going to make you feel good, Harry," Tom said, his voice soft and tempting. "I'm going to take good care of you. I'm going to help you forget."

Harry swallowed hard, blinking back the tears of frustration that welled in his eyes. "I don't want to do this." He didn't want to be a monster, but he already was one, wasn't he? And even if he wasn't, killing Tom was going to make him into one. But Tom had to be stopped. Harry couldn't let him get away with killing Ginny, so he would have to kill Tom. It was the only way.

Harry slid out of Tom's grasp and staggered backwards.

"It's alright, darling. You don't need to worry anymore." So sweet, those words. Like deliverance, like damnation. "I have the perfect place for you to go, far away from this town and their callous, uncaring ways."

Tension was building inside him, filling his chest with an unbearable pressure, but he wouldn't let it get to his head. Tom was watching him carefully, waiting for him to do something. So Harry would do something.

"You were right," Harry said shakily, "we are alike." Then he pulled the gun from his pocket and levelled it in Tom's direction.

Tom's eyes widened, surprised, but he didn't move. "You're not going to shoot me," he said.

Harry said nothing. He clicked off the safety. He was trembling so hard that it was a wonder his hands were steady enough to hold the gun, for his finger to curl around the trigger.

"For all your bravado," Tom said slowly, "you are not a killer."

Harry felt his fingers go numb. "You don't know me."

"If you were a killer, I'd be dead by now," Tom said in a wry tone. He took a step forward; Harry took a step back. "Lower the gun, my love. You wouldn't hurt me."

Harry raised his arms. The gun was now pointed directly at Tom's face. "You don't fucking know me. You think this is a joke to me? A game for you to live out your fucked up power trip fantasies? You're a fucking psychopath. You're a murderer and a monster. You deserve to die for what you did to Ginny." His voice was cracking, and his vision was flashing in hues of blue. "Don't fucking stand there like you have any moral high ground."

Tom's eyes were cold, bloodshot. He stared down at the gun. "It's not your fault, Harry. I understand that you did what you had to do to survive. But another pointless death at Godric's River won't bring your friend back to you."

"Shut the fuck up!" Harry's entire body was convulsing, rattling apart at the seams. "You  _ killed _ Ginny."

Tom was relentless. His eyes flashed with displeasure as he said, "You want my body in the river? You want the water to fill my lungs, burn me,  _ drown me—" _

"Shut up!" Harry was screaming now, desperate, almost hysterical. He wanted to cover his ears, to block out what Tom was saying, to block out the distant sounds of the river. Harry wanted to throw up, to suffocate and end it all. He wanted to drown because it was what he deserved.

"You want the river to kill me," Tom said, and there was an undertone of fascination to his words. "Bloodless and merciful, like a drug you take before you go to sleep."

Harry's face was wet. His hands were trembling, aching. He couldn't stand it any longer. He didn't want to listen anymore.

"We were just kids," Harry whispered. "We were just playing a game." Dancing across the river, tiny feet light over the jagged rocks that made up the riverbank.

Ron had slipped and fallen. Harry had slipped and fallen. They had both struggled to breathe. Harry had thrashed about, shoving, kicking, flailing in desperation. He had not seen what had happened, not like Ginny had, but he'd  _ felt _ it, the body that had struggled alongside his own, the body he had shoved at blindly, leveraging it in his frantic quest for oxygen—

It had been an accident.

Blood in the water was a terrible sight, red expanding through the water in cruel tendrils, but worse yet was the sight of a child's motionless body lost to the current.

Tom lifted his hands in a gesture of supplication. "We are all playing the same game, Harry. The winners are those who are most willing to endure the pain, but the punishment never changes."

Harry had a scar on his forehead that he refused to think about. It was the result of his forehead bashed against stone, leaving an injury severe enough for the lightning-shaped scar to survive through to adulthood.

"Yes," Harry said absently. His hand twitched; Tom's eyes caught the motion. Harry's head was hurting so badly and he wanted it to stop. He had thought himself able to kill Tom, but he had been wrong. He was too weak to do so. "We deserve the same punishment."

Harry pulled the gun back. He pulled it back and instead pressed the cold barrel to the bottom of his head, right against the soft flesh of his throat. There was one way to punish Tom that did not require another pointless death. No pointless death—only his own.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Tom snapped. "Stop that this instant."

What would it feel like, being shot? Would it feel like drowning when the blood poured out? Harry recalled the pain in his throat when the river had tried to claim him. Time had dulled the memory—he thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die like this, by the river on Christmas Eve.

"Harry, please put the gun down," Tom said, but Harry could barely hear him. Tom's voice was buried by the noise of the river.

Harry shook his head and stumbled two steps back.

"Harry," Tom said, fiercely now, full of anger. "Harry, do not pull that trigger." The river was still raging, but Harry was sure that it would stop soon.

"Listen to me, Harry. Do not do it. I forbid you—"

Harry's eyes were closed, and he could feel his throat tighten with fear. He could feel his heart beating rapidly, like waves crashing against his rib cage. He could feel the phantom sensation of water rushing against his back, carrying him away.

_ "Harry!" _

Tom's panic was palpable. Harry could picture him: slender hand outstretched, handsome features contorted in horror, eyes bulging and terrified. Soon that pretty face would be disfigured by grief.

_ "HARRY!" _

Harry pulled the trigger, and the gun went off.

His hand went slack. The sound of the gun hitting the ground was deafening, but it was nothing compared to the pain. Unimaginable agony ripped through his head, his face, worse than the feeling of drowning, worse than self-destructive guilt or unending depression. Harry had never known pain could feel this way, so concentrated, his flesh flayed alive, his entire brain consumed by the sensation until he was nothing but a vessel for it, for the pain.

But it was as Tom had said: the winners were those most willing to endure the pain, and Harry was more than willing.

"Harry!" Tom cried. "Harry!" Tom's screams came louder and louder, even as Harry toppled down to the frozen dock. Arms seized Harry's limp form, pulling it upright, clutching it tightly. Harry's body was cold, his skin was clammy. There was only the cold, the cold, the  _ cold. _ The cold in his veins. The cold in his heart. The cold in his soul.

His eyes were open, his mouth was open. Harry stared up at the sky, his body slackening. He could feel his own blood running down his face. He was dying.

"No, no," Tom said, his voice choked. He pulled Harry's head up, heedless of the blood. "You can't do this." He kissed Harry's forehead, kissed the scar there. "You can't. You can't. You can't." Harry's head was close to Tom's chest, and Tom's fingers were once again tangled in his hair. He could feel the heat of Tom's hand, a distant comfort.

"You can't," Tom repeated in a low moan. But the light was fading from Harry’s vision. "No," Tom said again, sobbing. "You can't die. I  _ need _ you."

_ Tough luck, _ Harry wanted to say, but he was unable to speak. So instead he listened to Tom's anguish, Tom's pleading. He listened to the sound of his own breathing going faint.

"Don't leave me, Harry, don't leave me." Tom whimpered, the noise like that of a small, teary-eyed child. "I don't want to turn into him. I don't want to." Tom's fingers were stroking his hair again and again, pushing uselessly at the blood-matted clumps.

Harry was still breathing, but it was like he was breathing through a straw, and it was very painful. But the pain was leaving him. He could tell it was going away, and soon it would be gone for good.

Harry could not feel his hands, or his legs, or even the bitter winter cold. He could feel nothing.

And then there was nothing.

And then there was nothing.

And then—

Harry lay there in the cold, with Tom crying over him, rocking them both back and forth until the sun rose over the horizon, setting the waters of Godric's River aglow.

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had considered a few different endings to this story, the first of which was an ending where harry succeeds in killing tom (and then himself). another alternative ending was where tom won, knocking harry out, and harry wakes up in an unfamiliar room (the separate apartment that tom purchased and furnished) and tied to the bedframe.
> 
> this ending, i think, carries its own power. harry has punished tom in a way he believes is just, and tom suffers for the crime he has hated his father for his whole life. it is not a happy ending, but it is satisfactory to me.
> 
> if i don't manage another update to another story before then: happy new year to all of you. it's been a long, long year full of chaos. i've started a second part-time job which will likely eat into my free time, but i will continue to write so long as these stories continue to call to me. 
> 
> thank you everyone for your patronage and your kind words. it is much appreciated <3

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing (and where i livewrote parts of this story) [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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